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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/7782.txt b/7782.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..93b5930 --- /dev/null +++ b/7782.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1250 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Tournament, by Alfred Lord Tennyson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Last Tournament + +Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson + +Posting Date: October 24, 2012 [EBook #7782] +Release Date: March, 2005 +First Posted: May 16, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST TOURNAMENT *** + + + + +Produced by Ted Garvin and the Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + + +THE LAST TOURNAMENT + +BY + +ALFRED TENNYSON, D.C.L., + +POET-LAUREATE + +AUTHOR'S EDITION + +FROM ADVANCE SHEETS + +This poem forms one of the "Idyls of the King." Its place +is between "Pelleas" and "Guinevere." + +BY ALFRED TENNYSON, + +POET LAUREATE + + Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his moods + Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, + At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, + Danced like a wither'd leaf before the Hall. + And toward him from the Hall, with harp in hand, + And from the crown thereof a carcanet + Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize + Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, + Came Tristram, saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?" + + For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once + Far down beneath a winding wall of rock + Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead, + From roots like some black coil of carven snakes + Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid-air + Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree + Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind + Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree + Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, + This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, + And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought + A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, + Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen + But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms + Received, and after loved it tenderly, + And named it Nestling; so forgot herself + A moment, and her cares; till that young life + Being smitten in mid-heaven with mortal cold + Past from her; and in time the carcanet + Vext her with plaintive memories of the child: + So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, + "Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence, + And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize." + + To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne + Dead nestling, and this honor after death, + Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse + Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone, + Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, + And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear." + + "Would rather ye had let them fall," she cried, + "Plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were, + A bitterness to me!--ye look amazed, + Not knowing they were lost as soon as given-- + Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out + Above the river--that unhappy child + Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go + With these rich jewels, seeing that they came + Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, + But the sweet body of a maiden babe. + Perchance--who knows?--the purest of thy knights + May win them for the purest of my maids." + + She ended, and the cry of a great jousts + With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways + From Camelot in among the faded fields + To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights + Arm'd for a day of glory before the King. + + But on the hither side of that loud morn + Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd + From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose + Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, + And one with shatter'd fingers dangling lame, + A churl, to whom indignantly the King, + "My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast + Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend? + Man was it who marr'd Heaven's image in thee thus?" + + Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of splinter'd teeth, + Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump + Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the maim'd churl, + "He took them and he drave them to his tower-- + Some hold he was a table-knight of thine-- + A hundred goodly ones--the Red Knight, he-- + + "Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight + Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower; + And when I call'd upon thy name as one + That doest right by gentle and by churl, + Maim'd me and maul'd, and would outright have slain, + Save that he sware me to a message, saying-- + 'Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I + Have founded my Round Table in the North, + And whatsoever his own knights have sworn + My knights have sworn the counter to it--and say + My tower is full of harlots, like his court, + But mine are worthier, seeing they profess + To be none other than themselves--and say + My knights are all adulterers like his own, + But mine are truer, seeing they profess + To be none other; and say his hour is come, + The heathen are upon him, his long lance + Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.'" + + Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the seneschal, + "Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously + Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. + The heathen--but that ever-climbing wave, + Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam, + Hath lain for years at rest--and renegades, + Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom + The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere,-- + Friends, thro' your manhood and your fealty,--now + Make their last head like Satan in the North. + My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower + Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, + Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, + The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. + But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place + Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field; + For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it, + Only to yield my Queen her own again? + Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?" + + * * * * * + + Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, "It is well: + Yet better if the King abide, and leave + The leading of his younger knights to me. + Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well." + + * * * * * + + Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd him, + And while they stood without the doors, the King + Turn'd to him saying, "Is it then so well? + Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he + Of whom was written, 'a sound is in his ears'-- + The foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance + That only seems half-loyal to command,-- + A manner somewhat fall'n from reverence-- + Or have I dream'd the bearing of our knights + Tells of a manhood ever less and lower? + Or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear'd, + By noble deeds at one with noble vows, + From flat confusion and brute violences, + Reel back into the beast, and be no more?" + + * * * * * + + He spoke, and taking all his younger knights, + Down the slope city rode, and sharply turn'd + North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, + Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, + Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh'd. + Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme + Of bygone Merlin, "Where is he who knows? + From the great deep to the great deep he goes." + + * * * * * + + But when the morning of a tournament, + By these in earnest those in mockery call'd + The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, + Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, + Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, + The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose, + And down a streetway hung with folds of pure + White samite, and by fountains running wine, + Where children sat in white with cups of gold, + Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps + Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair. + + * * * * * + + He glanced and saw the stately galleries, + Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their Queen + White-robed in honor of the stainless child, + And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank + Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. + He lookt but once, and veil'd his eyes again. + + * * * * * + + The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream + To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll + Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: + And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf + And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume + Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one + Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, + When all the goodlier guests are past away, + Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. + He saw the laws that ruled the tournament + Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down + Before his throne of arbitration cursed + The dead babe and the follies of the King; + And once the laces of a helmet crack'd, + And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, + Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard + The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar + An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, + But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest, + And armor'd all in forest green, whereon + There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, + And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, + With ever-scattering berries, and on shield + A spear, a harp, a bugle--Tristram--late + From overseas in Brittany return'd, + And marriage with a princess of that realm, + Isolt the White--Sir Tristram of the Woods-- + Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain + His own against him, and now yearn'd to shake + The burthen off his heart in one full shock + With Tristram ev'n to death: his strong hands gript + And dinted the gilt dragons right and left, + Until he groan'd for wrath--so many of those, + That ware their ladies' colors on the casque, + Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, + And there with gibes and nickering mockeries + Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven chests! O shame! + What faith have these in whom they sware to love? + The glory of our Round Table is no more." + + * * * * * + + So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems, + Not speaking other word than "Hast thou won? + Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand + Wherewith thou takest this is red!" to whom + Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood, + Made answer, "Ay, but wherefore toss me this + Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? + Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart + And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, + Are winners in this pastime of our King. + My hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it-- + No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight, + Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, + Great brother, thou nor I have made the world; + Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine." + And Tristram round the gallery made his horse + Caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly saying, + "Fair damsels, each to him who worships each + Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold + This day my Queen of Beauty is not here." + Then most of these were mute, some anger'd, one + Murmuring "All courtesy is dead," and one, + "The glory of our Round Table is no more." + + Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, + And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day + Went glooming down in wet and weariness: + But under her black brows a swarthy dame + Laught shrilly, crying "Praise the patient saints, + Our one white day of Innocence hath past, + Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. + The snowdrop only, flow'ring thro' the year, + Would make the world as blank as wintertide. + Come--let us comfort their sad eyes, our Queen's + And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity + With all the kindlier colors of the field." + + * * * * * + + So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast + Variously gay: for he that tells the tale + Liken'd them, saying "as when an hour of cold + Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, + And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers + Pass under white, till the warm hour returns + With veer of wind, and all are flowers again;" + So dame and damsel cast the simple white, + And glowing in all colors, the live grass, + Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced + About the revels, and with mirth so loud + Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, + And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, + Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower + Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. + + * * * * * + + And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, + High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, + Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. + Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?" + Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet replied, + "Belike for lack of wiser company; + Or being fool, and seeing too much wit + Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip + To know myself the wisest knight of all." + "Ay, fool," said Tristram, "but 'tis eating dry + To dance without a catch, a roundelay + To dance to." Then he twangled on his harp, + And while he twangled little Dagonet stood, + Quiet as any water-sodden log + Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook; + But when the twangling ended, skipt again; + Then being ask'd, "Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?" + Made answer, "I had liefer twenty years + Skip to the broken music of my brains + Than any broken music ye can make." + Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, + "Good now, what music have I broken, fool?" + And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the king's; + For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, + Thou makest broken music with thy bride, + Her daintier namesake down in Brittany-- + And so thou breakest Arthur's music too." + "Save for that broken music in thy brains, + Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would break thy head. + Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o'er, + The life had flown, we sware but by the shell-- + I am but a fool to reason with a fool + Come, thou art crabb'd and sour: but lean me down, + Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, + And hearken if my music be not true. + + "'Free love--free field--we love but while we may: + The woods are hush'd, their music is no more: + The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: + New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er: + New life, new love to suit the newer day: + New loves are sweet as those that went before: + Free love,--free field--we love but while we may.' + + "Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, + Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, + And found it ring as true as tested gold." + + But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, + "Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday + Made to run wine?--but this had run itself + All out like a long life to a sour end-- + And them that round it sat with golden cups + To hand the wine to whomsoever came-- + The twelve small damosels white as Innocence, + + "In honor of poor Innocence the babe, + Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen + Lent to the King, and Innocence the King + Gave for a prize--and one of those white slips + Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, + 'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank, + Spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud." + And Tristram, "Was it muddier than thy gibes? + Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?-- + Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool-- + 'Fear God: honor the king--his one true knight-- + Sole follower of the vows'--for here be they + Who knew thee swine enow before I came, + Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King + Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up + It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; + Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, + A naked aught--yet swine I hold thee still, + For I have flung thee pearls, and find thee swine." + + And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, + "Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck + In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch + Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. + Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd--the world + Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day. + The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind + Hath foul'd me--an I wallow'd, then I wash'd-- + I have had my day and my philosophies-- + And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool. + Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese + Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd + On such a wire as musically as thou + Some such fine song--but never a king's fool." + + And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, geese + The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard + Had such a mastery of his mystery + That he could harp his wife up out of Hell." + + Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, + "And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself + Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, + That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star + We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?" + + And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King + Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, + Glorying in each new glory, set his name + High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven." + + And Dagonet answer'd, "Ay, and when the land + Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself + To babble about him, all to show your wit-- + And whether he were king by courtesy, + Or king by right--and so went harping down + The black king's highway, got so far, and grew + So witty, that ye play'd at ducks and drakes + With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. + Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?" + "Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in open day." + And Dagonet, "Nay, nor will: I see it and hear. + It makes a silent music up in heaven, + And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, + And then we skip." "Lo, fool," he said, "ye talk + Fool's treason: is the king thy brother fool?" + Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill'd, + "Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools*! + Conceits himself as God that he can make + Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk + From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs, + And men from beasts.--Long live the king of fools!" + + And down the city Dagonet danced away. + But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues + And solitary passes of the wood + Rode Tristram toward Lyonesse and the west. + Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt + With ruby-circled neck, but evermore + Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood + Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye + For all that walk'd, or crept, or perched, or flew. + Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, + Unruffling waters re-collect the shape + Of one that in them sees himself, return'd; + But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, + Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again. + + So on for all that day from lawn to lawn + Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length + A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs + Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which himself + Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt + Against a shower, dark in the golden grove + Appearing, sent his fancy back to where + She lived a moon in that low lodge with him: + Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish king, + With six or seven, when Tristram was away, + And snatch'd her thence; yet dreading worse than shame + Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, + But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. + + And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt + So sweet, that, halting, in he past, and sank + Down on a drift of foliage random-blown; + But could not rest for musing how to smooth + And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. + Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all + The tonguesters of the court she had not heard. + But then what folly had sent him overseas + After she left him lonely here? a name? + Was it the name of one in Brittany, + Isolt, the daughter of the King? "Isolt + Of the white hands" they call'd her: the sweet name + Allured him first, and then the maid herself, + Who served him well with those white hands of hers, + And loved him well, until himself had thought + He loved her also, wedded easily, + But left her all as easily, and return'd. + The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes + Had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid + His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd. + + He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany + Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, + And show'd them both the ruby-chain, and both + Began to struggle for it, till his Queen + Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. + Then cried the Breton, "Look, her hand is red! + These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, + And melts within her hand--her hand is hot + With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, + Is all as cool and white as any flower." + Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then + A whimpering of the spirit of the child, + Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet. + + He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred spears + Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, + And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, + The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh + Glared on a huge machicolated tower + That stood with open doors, whereout was roll'd + A roar of riot, as from men secure + Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease + Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. + "Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for there, + High on a grim dead tree before the tower, + A goodly brother of The Table Round + Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield + Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, + And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights + At that dishonor done the gilded spur, + Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. + But Arthur waved them back: alone he rode. + Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, + That sent the face of all the marsh aloft + + An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud + Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all, + Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm, + In blood-red armor sallying, howl'd to the King, + "The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!-- + Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King + Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world-- + The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, and I! + Slain was the brother of my paramour + By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine + And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, + Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, + And stings itself to everlasting death, + To hang whatever knight of thine I fought + And tumbled. Art thou King?--Look to thy life!" + He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face + Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name + Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. + And Arthur deign'd not use of word or sword, + But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from horse + To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, + Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp + Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave + Heard in dead night along that table-shore + Drops flat, and after the great waters break + Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves + Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud. + From less and less to nothing; thus he fell + Head-heavy, while the knights, who watch'd him, roar'd + And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n; + There trampled out his face from being known, + And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: + Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang + Thro' open doors, and swording right and left + Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd + The tables over and the wines, and slew + Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, + And all the pavement stream'd with massacre: + Then, yell with yell echoing, they fired the tower, + Which half that autumn night, like the live North, + Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor, + Made all above it, and a hundred meres + About it, as the water Moab saw + Come round by the East, and out beyond them flush'd + The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. + + So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, + But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. + Then out of Tristram waking the red dream + Fled with a shout, and that low lodge return'd, + Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. + He whistled his good warhorse left to graze + Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, + And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, + Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, + Stay'd him, "Why weep ye?" "Lord," she said, "my man + Hath left me or is dead;" whereon he thought-- + "What an she hate me now? I would not this. + What an she love me still? I would not that. + I know not what I would"--but said to her,-- + "Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, + He find thy favor changed and love thee not"-- + Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonesse + Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard + The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds + Yelp at his heart, but, turning, past and gain'd + Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, + A crown of towers. + + Down in a casement sat, + A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair + And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen. + And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind + The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, + Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there + Belted his body with her white embrace, + Crying aloud, "Not Mark--not Mark, my soul! + The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he: + Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark, + But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls + Who hates thee, as I him--ev'n to the death. + My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark + Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh." + To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here. + Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine." + + And drawing somewhat backward she replied, + "Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own, + But save for dread of thee had beaten me, + Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow--Mark? + What rights are his that dare not strike for them? + Not lift a hand--not, tho' he found me thus! + But hearken, have ye met him? hence he went + To-day for three days' hunting--as he said-- + And so returns belike within an hour. + Mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with him, + Because he hates thee even more than fears; + Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood + Close visor, lest an arrow from the bush + Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. + My God, the measure of my hate for Mark + Is as the measure of my love for thee." + + So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, + Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake + To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, + "O hunter, and O blower of the horn, + Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, + For, ere I mated with my shambling king, + Ye twain had fallen out about the bride + Of one--his name is out of me--the prize, + If prize she were--(what marvel--she could see)-- + Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks + To wreck thee villanously: but, O Sir Knight, + What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?" + + And Tristram, "Last to my Queen Paramount, + Here now to my Queen Paramount of love, + And loveliness, ay, lovelier than when first + Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonesse, + Sailing from Ireland." + + Softly laugh'd Isolt, + "Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen + My dole of beauty trebled?" and he said, + "Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, + And thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind-- + Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips + Most gracious; but she, haughty, ev'n to him, + Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow + To make one doubt if ever the great Queen + Have yielded him her love." + + To whom Isolt, + "Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou + Who brakest thro' the scruple of my bond, + Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me + That Guinevere had sinned against the highest, + And I--misyoked with such a want of man-- + That I could hardly sin against the lowest." + + He answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted! + If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, + If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, + Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin + That made us happy: but how ye greet me--fear + And fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale-- + Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories + Of Tristram in that year he was away." + + And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, + "I had forgotten all in my strong joy + To see thee--yearnings?--ay! for, hour by hour, + Here in the never-ended afternoon, + O sweeter than all memories of thee, + Deeper than any yearnings after thee + Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, + Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash'd + Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, + Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? Wedded her? + Fought in her father's battles? wounded there? + The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness, + And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd + Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress-- + Well--can I wish her any huger wrong + Than having known thee? her too hast thou left + To pine and waste in those sweet memories? + O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men + Are noble, I should hate thee more than love." + + And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, + "Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. + Did I love her? the name at least I loved. + Isolt?--I fought his battles, for Isolt! + The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt! + The name was ruler of the dark----Isolt? + Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, + Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God." + And Isolt answer'd, "Yea, and why not I? + Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, + Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. + Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat + Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, + Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, + And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. + Then flash'd a levin-brand; and near me stood, + In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend-- + Mark's way to steal behind one in the dark-- + For there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, + Not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers + So shook to such a roar of all the sky, + That here in utter dark I swoon'd away, + And woke again in utter dark, and cried, + 'I will flee hence and give myself to God'-- + And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms." + + Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, + "May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, + And past desire!" a saying that anger'd her. + "'May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, + And sweet no more to me!' I need Him now. + For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so gross + Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? + The greater man, the greater courtesy. + But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beasts-- + Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance + Becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself. + How darest thou, if lover, push me even + In fancy from thy side, and set me far + In the gray distance, half a life away, + Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear! + Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, + Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, + Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck + Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. + Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, + And solemnly as when ye sware to him, + The man of men, our King--My God, the power + Was once in vows when men believed the King! + They lied not then, who sware, and thro' their vows + The King prevailing made his realm:--I say, + Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old, + Gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair." + + Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, + "Vows! did ye keep the vow ye made to Mark + More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, + The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself-- + My knighthood taught me this--ay, being snapt-- + We run more counter to the soul thereof + Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. + I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. + For once--ev'n to the height--I honor'd him. + 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first + I rode from our rough Lyonesse, and beheld + That victor of the Pagan throned in hall-- + His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow + Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, + The golden beard that clothed his lips with light-- + Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, + With Merlin's mystic babble about his end, + Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool + Shaped as a dragon; he seem'd to me no man, + But Michael trampling Satan; so I sware, + Being amazed: but this went by--the vows! + O ay--the wholesome madness of an hour-- + They served their use, their time; for every knight + Believed himself a greater than himself, + And every follower eyed him as a God; + Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, + Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, + And so the realm was made; but then their vows-- + First mainly thro' that sullying of our Queen-- + Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence + Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? + Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the deep? + They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood + Of our old Kings: whence then? a doubtful lord + To bind them by inviolable vows, + Which flesh and blood perforce would violate: + For feel this arm of mine--the tide within + Red with free chase and heather-scented air, + Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure + As any maiden child? lock up my tongue + From uttering freely what I freely hear? + Bind me to one? The great world laughs at it. + And worldling of the world am I, and know + The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour + Wooes his own end; we are not angels here + Nor shall be: vows--I am woodman of the woods, + And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale + Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; + And therefore is my love so large for thee, + Seeing it is not bounded save by love." + + Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, + "Good: an I turn'd away my love for thee + To some one thrice as courteous as thyself-- + For courtesy wins woman all as well + As valor may--but he that closes both + Is perfect, he is Lancelot--taller indeed, + Rosier, and comelier, thou--but say I loved + This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back + Thine own small saw 'We love but while we may,' + Well then, what answer?" + + He that while she spake, + Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, + The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch + The warm white apple of her throat, replied, + "Press this a little closer, sweet, until-- + Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd--meat, + Wine, wine--and I will love thee to the death, + And out beyond into the dream to come." + + So then, when both were brought to full accord, + She rose, and set before him all he will'd; + And after these had comforted the blood + With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts-- + Now talking of their woodland paradise, + The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; + Now mocking at the much ungainliness, + And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark-- + Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: + + "Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bend the brier! + A star in heaven, a star within the mere! + Ay, ay, O ay--a star was my desire, + And one was far apart, and one was near: + Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bow the grass! + And one was water and one star was fire, + And one will ever shine and one will pass. + Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that move the mere." + + Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram show'd + And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, + "The collar of some order, which our King + Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, + For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers." + "Not so, my Queen," he said, "but the red fruit + Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, + And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, + And hither brought by Tristram for his last + Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee." + + He rose, he turn'd, and flinging round her neck, + Claspt it; but while he bow'd himself to lay + Warm kisses in the hollow of her throat, + Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd, + Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek-- + "Mark's way," said Mark, and clove him thro' the brain. + + That night came Arthur home, and while he climb'd, + All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, + The stairway to the hall, and look'd and saw + The great Queen's bower was dark,--about his feet + A voice clung sobbing till he question'd it, + "What art thou?" and the voice about his feet + Sent up an answer, sobbing, "I am thy fool, + And I shall never make thee smile again." + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Last Tournament, by Alfred Lord Tennyson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST TOURNAMENT *** + +***** This file should be named 7782.txt or 7782.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/7/8/7782/ + +Produced by Ted Garvin and the Distributed Proofreading Team + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Last Tournament + +Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson + +Release Date: March, 2005 [EBook #7782] +[This file was first posted on May 16, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE LAST TOURNAMENT *** + + + + +Ted Garvin and the Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +THE LAST TOURNAMENT + +BY + +ALFRED TENNYSON, D.C.L., + +POET-LAUREATE + +AUTHOR'S EDITION + +FROM ADVANCE SHEETS + +This poem forms one of the "Idyls of the King." Its place +is between "Pelleas" and "Guinevere." + +BY ALFRED TENNYSON, + +POET LAUREATE + + Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his moods + Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, + At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, + Danced like a wither'd leaf before the Hall. + And toward him from the Hall, with harp in hand, + And from the crown thereof a carcanet + Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize + Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, + Came Tristram, saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?" + + For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once + Far down beneath a winding wall of rock + Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead, + From roots like some black coil of carven snakes + Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid-air + Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree + Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind + Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree + Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, + This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, + And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought + A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, + Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen + But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms + Received, and after loved it tenderly, + And named it Nestling; so forgot herself + A moment, and her cares; till that young life + Being smitten in mid-heaven with mortal cold + Past from her; and in time the carcanet + Vext her with plaintive memories of the child: + So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, + "Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence, + And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize." + + To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne + Dead nestling, and this honor after death, + Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse + Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone, + Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, + And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear." + + "Would rather ye had let them fall," she cried, + "Plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were, + A bitterness to me!--ye look amazed, + Not knowing they were lost as soon as given-- + Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out + Above the river--that unhappy child + Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go + With these rich jewels, seeing that they came + Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, + But the sweet body of a maiden babe. + Perchance--who knows?--the purest of thy knights + May win them for the purest of my maids." + + She ended, and the cry of a great jousts + With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways + From Camelot in among the faded fields + To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights + Arm'd for a day of glory before the King. + + But on the hither side of that loud morn + Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd + From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose + Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, + And one with shatter'd fingers dangling lame, + A churl, to whom indignantly the King, + "My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast + Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend? + Man was it who marr'd Heaven's image in thee thus?" + + Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of splinter'd teeth, + Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump + Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the maim'd churl, + "He took them and he drave them to his tower-- + Some hold he was a table-knight of thine-- + A hundred goodly ones--the Red Knight, he-- + + "Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight + Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower; + And when I call'd upon thy name as one + That doest right by gentle and by churl, + Maim'd me and maul'd, and would outright have slain, + Save that he sware me to a message, saying-- + 'Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I + Have founded my Round Table in the North, + And whatsoever his own knights have sworn + My knights have sworn the counter to it--and say + My tower is full of harlots, like his court, + But mine are worthier, seeing they profess + To be none other than themselves--and say + My knights are all adulterers like his own, + But mine are truer, seeing they profess + To be none other; and say his hour is come, + The heathen are upon him, his long lance + Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.'" + + Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the seneschal, + "Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously + Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. + The heathen--but that ever-climbing wave, + Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam, + Hath lain for years at rest--and renegades, + Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom + The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere,-- + Friends, thro' your manhood and your fealty,--now + Make their last head like Satan in the North. + My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower + Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, + Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, + The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. + But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place + Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field; + For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it, + Only to yield my Queen her own again? + Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?" + + * * * * * + + Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, "It is well: + Yet better if the King abide, and leave + The leading of his younger knights to me. + Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well." + + * * * * * + + Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd him, + And while they stood without the doors, the King + Turn'd to him saying, "Is it then so well? + Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he + Of whom was written, 'a sound is in his ears'-- + The foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance + That only seems half-loyal to command,-- + A manner somewhat fall'n from reverence-- + Or have I dream'd the bearing of our knights + Tells of a manhood ever less and lower? + Or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear'd, + By noble deeds at one with noble vows, + From flat confusion and brute violences, + Reel back into the beast, and be no more?" + + * * * * * + + He spoke, and taking all his younger knights, + Down the slope city rode, and sharply turn'd + North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, + Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, + Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh'd. + Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme + Of bygone Merlin, "Where is he who knows? + From the great deep to the great deep he goes." + + * * * * * + + But when the morning of a tournament, + By these in earnest those in mockery call'd + The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, + Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, + Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, + The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose, + And down a streetway hung with folds of pure + White samite, and by fountains running wine, + Where children sat in white with cups of gold, + Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps + Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair. + + * * * * * + + He glanced and saw the stately galleries, + Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their Queen + White-robed in honor of the stainless child, + And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank + Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. + He lookt but once, and veil'd his eyes again. + + * * * * * + + The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream + To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll + Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: + And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf + And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume + Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one + Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, + When all the goodlier guests are past away, + Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. + He saw the laws that ruled the tournament + Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down + Before his throne of arbitration cursed + The dead babe and the follies of the King; + And once the laces of a helmet crack'd, + And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, + Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard + The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar + An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, + But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest, + And armor'd all in forest green, whereon + There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, + And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, + With ever-scattering berries, and on shield + A spear, a harp, a bugle--Tristram--late + From overseas in Brittany return'd, + And marriage with a princess of that realm, + Isolt the White--Sir Tristram of the Woods-- + Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain + His own against him, and now yearn'd to shake + The burthen off his heart in one full shock + With Tristram ev'n to death: his strong hands gript + And dinted the gilt dragons right and left, + Until he groan'd for wrath--so many of those, + That ware their ladies' colors on the casque, + Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, + And there with gibes and nickering mockeries + Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven chests! O shame! + What faith have these in whom they sware to love? + The glory of our Round Table is no more." + + * * * * * + + So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems, + Not speaking other word than "Hast thou won? + Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand + Wherewith thou takest this is red!" to whom + Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood, + Made answer, "Ay, but wherefore toss me this + Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? + Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart + And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, + Are winners in this pastime of our King. + My hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it-- + No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight, + Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, + Great brother, thou nor I have made the world; + Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine." + And Tristram round the gallery made his horse + Caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly saying, + "Fair damsels, each to him who worships each + Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold + This day my Queen of Beauty is not here." + Then most of these were mute, some anger'd, one + Murmuring "All courtesy is dead," and one, + "The glory of our Round Table is no more." + + Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, + And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day + Went glooming down in wet and weariness: + But under her black brows a swarthy dame + Laught shrilly, crying "Praise the patient saints, + Our one white day of Innocence hath past, + Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. + The snowdrop only, flow'ring thro' the year, + Would make the world as blank as wintertide. + Come--let us comfort their sad eyes, our Queen's + And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity + With all the kindlier colors of the field." + + * * * * * + + So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast + Variously gay: for he that tells the tale + Liken'd them, saying "as when an hour of cold + Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, + And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers + Pass under white, till the warm hour returns + With veer of wind, and all are flowers again;" + So dame and damsel cast the simple white, + And glowing in all colors, the live grass, + Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced + About the revels, and with mirth so loud + Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, + And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, + Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower + Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. + + * * * * * + + And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, + High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, + Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. + Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?" + Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet replied, + "Belike for lack of wiser company; + Or being fool, and seeing too much wit + Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip + To know myself the wisest knight of all." + "Ay, fool," said Tristram, "but 'tis eating dry + To dance without a catch, a roundelay + To dance to." Then he twangled on his harp, + And while he twangled little Dagonet stood, + Quiet as any water-sodden log + Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook; + But when the twangling ended, skipt again; + Then being ask'd, "Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?" + Made answer, "I had liefer twenty years + Skip to the broken music of my brains + Than any broken music ye can make." + Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, + "Good now, what music have I broken, fool?" + And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the king's; + For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, + Thou makest broken music with thy bride, + Her daintier namesake down in Brittany-- + And so thou breakest Arthur's music too." + "Save for that broken music in thy brains, + Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would break thy head. + Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o'er, + The life had flown, we sware but by the shell-- + I am but a fool to reason with a fool + Come, thou art crabb'd and sour: but lean me down, + Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, + And hearken if my music be not true. + + "'Free love--free field--we love but while we may: + The woods are hush'd, their music is no more: + The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: + New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er: + New life, new love to suit the newer day: + New loves are sweet as those that went before: + Free love,--free field--we love but while we may.' + + "Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, + Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, + And found it ring as true as tested gold." + + But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, + "Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday + Made to run wine?--but this had run itself + All out like a long life to a sour end-- + And them that round it sat with golden cups + To hand the wine to whomsoever came-- + The twelve small damosels white as Innocence, + + "In honor of poor Innocence the babe, + Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen + Lent to the King, and Innocence the King + Gave for a prize--and one of those white slips + Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, + 'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank, + Spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud." + And Tristram, "Was it muddier than thy gibes? + Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?-- + Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool-- + 'Fear God: honor the king--his one true knight-- + Sole follower of the vows'--for here be they + Who knew thee swine enow before I came, + Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King + Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up + It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; + Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, + A naked aught--yet swine I hold thee still, + For I have flung thee pearls, and find thee swine." + + And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, + "Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck + In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch + Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. + Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd--the world + Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day. + The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind + Hath foul'd me--an I wallow'd, then I wash'd-- + I have had my day and my philosophies-- + And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool. + Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese + Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd + On such a wire as musically as thou + Some such fine song--but never a king's fool." + + And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, geese + The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard + Had such a mastery of his mystery + That he could harp his wife up out of Hell." + + Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, + "And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself + Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, + That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star + We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?" + + And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King + Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, + Glorying in each new glory, set his name + High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven." + + And Dagonet answer'd, "Ay, and when the land + Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself + To babble about him, all to show your wit-- + And whether he were king by courtesy, + Or king by right--and so went harping down + The black king's highway, got so far, and grew + So witty, that ye play'd at ducks and drakes + With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. + Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?" + "Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in open day." + And Dagonet, "Nay, nor will: I see it and hear. + It makes a silent music up in heaven, + And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, + And then we skip." "Lo, fool," he said, "ye talk + Fool's treason: is the king thy brother fool?" + Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill'd, + "Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools*! + Conceits himself as God that he can make + Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk + From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs, + And men from beasts.--Long live the king of fools!" + + And down the city Dagonet danced away. + But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues + And solitary passes of the wood + Rode Tristram toward Lyonesse and the west. + Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt + With ruby-circled neck, but evermore + Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood + Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye + For all that walk'd, or crept, or perched, or flew. + Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, + Unruffling waters re-collect the shape + Of one that in them sees himself, return'd; + But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, + Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again. + + So on for all that day from lawn to lawn + Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length + A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs + Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which himself + Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt + Against a shower, dark in the golden grove + Appearing, sent his fancy back to where + She lived a moon in that low lodge with him: + Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish king, + With six or seven, when Tristram was away, + And snatch'd her thence; yet dreading worse than shame + Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, + But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. + + And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt + So sweet, that, halting, in he past, and sank + Down on a drift of foliage random-blown; + But could not rest for musing how to smooth + And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. + Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all + The tonguesters of the court she had not heard. + But then what folly had sent him overseas + After she left him lonely here? a name? + Was it the name of one in Brittany, + Isolt, the daughter of the King? "Isolt + Of the white hands" they call'd her: the sweet name + Allured him first, and then the maid herself, + Who served him well with those white hands of hers, + And loved him well, until himself had thought + He loved her also, wedded easily, + But left her all as easily, and return'd. + The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes + Had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid + His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd. + + He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany + Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, + And show'd them both the ruby-chain, and both + Began to struggle for it, till his Queen + Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. + Then cried the Breton, "Look, her hand is red! + These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, + And melts within her hand--her hand is hot + With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, + Is all as cool and white as any flower." + Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then + A whimpering of the spirit of the child, + Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet. + + He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred spears + Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, + And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, + The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh + Glared on a huge machicolated tower + That stood with open doors, whereout was roll'd + A roar of riot, as from men secure + Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease + Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. + "Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for there, + High on a grim dead tree before the tower, + A goodly brother of The Table Round + Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield + Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, + And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights + At that dishonor done the gilded spur, + Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. + But Arthur waved them back: alone he rode. + Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, + That sent the face of all the marsh aloft + + An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud + Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all, + Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm, + In blood-red armor sallying, howl'd to the King, + "The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!-- + Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King + Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world-- + The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, and I! + Slain was the brother of my paramour + By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine + And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, + Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, + And stings itself to everlasting death, + To hang whatever knight of thine I fought + And tumbled. Art thou King?--Look to thy life!" + He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face + Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name + Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. + And Arthur deign'd not use of word or sword, + But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from horse + To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, + Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp + Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave + Heard in dead night along that table-shore + Drops flat, and after the great waters break + Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves + Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud. + From less and less to nothing; thus he fell + Head-heavy, while the knights, who watch'd him, roar'd + And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n; + There trampled out his face from being known, + And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: + Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang + Thro' open doors, and swording right and left + Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd + The tables over and the wines, and slew + Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, + And all the pavement stream'd with massacre: + Then, yell with yell echoing, they fired the tower, + Which half that autumn night, like the live North, + Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor, + Made all above it, and a hundred meres + About it, as the water Moab saw + Come round by the East, and out beyond them flush'd + The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. + + So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, + But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. + Then out of Tristram waking the red dream + Fled with a shout, and that low lodge return'd, + Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. + He whistled his good warhorse left to graze + Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, + And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, + Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, + Stay'd him, "Why weep ye?" "Lord," she said, "my man + Hath left me or is dead;" whereon he thought-- + "What an she hate me now? I would not this. + What an she love me still? I would not that. + I know not what I would"--but said to her,-- + "Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, + He find thy favor changed and love thee not"-- + Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonesse + Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard + The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds + Yelp at his heart, but, turning, past and gain'd + Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, + A crown of towers. + + Down in a casement sat, + A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair + And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen. + And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind + The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, + Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there + Belted his body with her white embrace, + Crying aloud, "Not Mark--not Mark, my soul! + The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he: + Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark, + But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls + Who hates thee, as I him--ev'n to the death. + My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark + Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh." + To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here. + Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine." + + And drawing somewhat backward she replied, + "Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own, + But save for dread of thee had beaten me, + Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow--Mark? + What rights are his that dare not strike for them? + Not lift a hand--not, tho' he found me thus! + But hearken, have ye met him? hence he went + To-day for three days' hunting--as he said-- + And so returns belike within an hour. + Mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with him, + Because he hates thee even more than fears; + Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood + Close visor, lest an arrow from the bush + Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. + My God, the measure of my hate for Mark + Is as the measure of my love for thee." + + So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, + Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake + To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, + "O hunter, and O blower of the horn, + Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, + For, ere I mated with my shambling king, + Ye twain had fallen out about the bride + Of one--his name is out of me--the prize, + If prize she were--(what marvel--she could see)-- + Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks + To wreck thee villanously: but, O Sir Knight, + What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?" + + And Tristram, "Last to my Queen Paramount, + Here now to my Queen Paramount of love, + And loveliness, ay, lovelier than when first + Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonesse, + Sailing from Ireland." + + Softly laugh'd Isolt, + "Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen + My dole of beauty trebled?" and he said, + "Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, + And thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind-- + Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips + Most gracious; but she, haughty, ev'n to him, + Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow + To make one doubt if ever the great Queen + Have yielded him her love." + + To whom Isolt, + "Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou + Who brakest thro' the scruple of my bond, + Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me + That Guinevere had sinned against the highest, + And I--misyoked with such a want of man-- + That I could hardly sin against the lowest." + + He answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted! + If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, + If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, + Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin + That made us happy: but how ye greet me--fear + And fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale-- + Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories + Of Tristram in that year he was away." + + And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, + "I had forgotten all in my strong joy + To see thee--yearnings?--ay! for, hour by hour, + Here in the never-ended afternoon, + O sweeter than all memories of thee, + Deeper than any yearnings after thee + Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, + Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash'd + Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, + Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? Wedded her? + Fought in her father's battles? wounded there? + The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness, + And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd + Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress-- + Well--can I wish her any huger wrong + Than having known thee? her too hast thou left + To pine and waste in those sweet memories? + O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men + Are noble, I should hate thee more than love." + + And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, + "Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. + Did I love her? the name at least I loved. + Isolt?--I fought his battles, for Isolt! + The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt! + The name was ruler of the dark----Isolt? + Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, + Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God." + And Isolt answer'd, "Yea, and why not I? + Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, + Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. + Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat + Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, + Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, + And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. + Then flash'd a levin-brand; and near me stood, + In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend-- + Mark's way to steal behind one in the dark-- + For there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, + Not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers + So shook to such a roar of all the sky, + That here in utter dark I swoon'd away, + And woke again in utter dark, and cried, + 'I will flee hence and give myself to God'-- + And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms." + + Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, + "May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, + And past desire!" a saying that anger'd her. + "'May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, + And sweet no more to me!' I need Him now. + For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so gross + Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? + The greater man, the greater courtesy. + But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beasts-- + Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance + Becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself. + How darest thou, if lover, push me even + In fancy from thy side, and set me far + In the gray distance, half a life away, + Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear! + Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, + Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, + Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck + Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. + Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, + And solemnly as when ye sware to him, + The man of men, our King--My God, the power + Was once in vows when men believed the King! + They lied not then, who sware, and thro' their vows + The King prevailing made his realm:--I say, + Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old, + Gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair." + + Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, + "Vows! did ye keep the vow ye made to Mark + More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, + The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself-- + My knighthood taught me this--ay, being snapt-- + We run more counter to the soul thereof + Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. + I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. + For once--ev'n to the height--I honor'd him. + 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first + I rode from our rough Lyonesse, and beheld + That victor of the Pagan throned in hall-- + His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow + Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, + The golden beard that clothed his lips with light-- + Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, + With Merlin's mystic babble about his end, + Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool + Shaped as a dragon; he seem'd to me no man, + But Michael trampling Satan; so I sware, + Being amazed: but this went by--the vows! + O ay--the wholesome madness of an hour-- + They served their use, their time; for every knight + Believed himself a greater than himself, + And every follower eyed him as a God; + Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, + Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, + And so the realm was made; but then their vows-- + First mainly thro' that sullying of our Queen-- + Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence + Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? + Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the deep? + They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood + Of our old Kings: whence then? a doubtful lord + To bind them by inviolable vows, + Which flesh and blood perforce would violate: + For feel this arm of mine--the tide within + Red with free chase and heather-scented air, + Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure + As any maiden child? lock up my tongue + From uttering freely what I freely hear? + Bind me to one? The great world laughs at it. + And worldling of the world am I, and know + The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour + Wooes his own end; we are not angels here + Nor shall be: vows--I am woodman of the woods, + And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale + Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; + And therefore is my love so large for thee, + Seeing it is not bounded save by love." + + Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, + "Good: an I turn'd away my love for thee + To some one thrice as courteous as thyself-- + For courtesy wins woman all as well + As valor may--but he that closes both + Is perfect, he is Lancelot--taller indeed, + Rosier, and comelier, thou--but say I loved + This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back + Thine own small saw 'We love but while we may,' + Well then, what answer?" + + He that while she spake, + Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, + The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch + The warm white apple of her throat, replied, + "Press this a little closer, sweet, until-- + Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd--meat, + Wine, wine--and I will love thee to the death, + And out beyond into the dream to come." + + So then, when both were brought to full accord, + She rose, and set before him all he will'd; + And after these had comforted the blood + With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts-- + Now talking of their woodland paradise, + The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; + Now mocking at the much ungainliness, + And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark-- + Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: + + "Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bend the brier! + A star in heaven, a star within the mere! + Ay, ay, O ay--a star was my desire, + And one was far apart, and one was near: + Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bow the grass! + And one was water and one star was fire, + And one will ever shine and one will pass. + Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that move the mere." + + Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram show'd + And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, + "The collar of some order, which our King + Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, + For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers." + "Not so, my Queen," he said, "but the red fruit + Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, + And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, + And hither brought by Tristram for his last + Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee." + + He rose, he turn'd, and flinging round her neck, + Claspt it; but while he bow'd himself to lay + Warm kisses in the hollow of her throat, + Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd, + Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek-- + "Mark's way," said Mark, and clove him thro' the brain. + + That night came Arthur home, and while he climb'd, + All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, + The stairway to the hall, and look'd and saw + The great Queen's bower was dark,--about his feet + A voice clung sobbing till he question'd it, + "What art thou?" and the voice about his feet + Sent up an answer, sobbing, "I am thy fool, + And I shall never make thee smile again." + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE LAST TOURNAMENT *** + +This file should be named tltrn10.txt or tltrn10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, tltrn11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, tltrn10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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